Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience. Lever Charles James

THEIR CONFIDENCES

      By the details of my last two chapters, I have been obliged to recede, as it were, from the due course of my story, and speak of events which occurred prior to those mentioned in a former chapter; but this irregularity was a matter of necessity, since I could not pursue the narrative of my father’s life without introducing to the reader certain characters who, more or less, exerted an influence on his fortunes. Let me now, however, turn to my tale, from which it is my intention in future to digress as seldom as possible. A few lines, written in haste, had summoned MacNaghten to Castle Carew, on the morning of that Friday for which my father had invited his friends to dinner. With all his waywardness, and all the weaknesses of an impulsive nature, Dan MacNaghten stood higher in my father’s esteem than any other of his friends. It was not alone that he had given my father the most signal proofs of his friendship, but that, throughout his whole career, marked as it was by folly and rashness, and the most thoughtless extravagance, he had never done a single action that reflected on his reputation as a man of honor, nor, in all the triumphs of his prosperous days, or in the trials of his adverse ones, had be forfeited the regard of any who knew him. My father had intrusted to him, during his absence, everything that could be done without correspondence; for amongst Dan’s characteristics. none was more remarkable than his horror of letter-writing; and it was a popular saying of the time “that Dan MacNaghten would rather fight two duels than write one challenge.” Of course, it may be imagined how much there was for two such friends to talk over when they met, for if my father’s letters were few and brief, MacNaghten’s were still fewer and less explicit, leaving voids on either side that nothing but a meeting could supply.

      Early, therefore, that Friday morning, Dan’s gig and mottled gray, the last remnant of an extensive stable establishment, rattled up the avenue of Castle Carew, and MacNaghten strolled into the garden to loiter about till such time as my father might be stirring. He was not many minutes there, however, when my father joined him, and the two friends embraced cordially, and arm-in-arm returned to the house.

      It was not without astonishment Dan saw that the breakfast-table was spread in the same little garden-room which my father always used in his bachelor days, and, still more, that only two places were laid.

      “You are wondering, where’s my wife, Dan. She never breakfasts with me; nor indeed, do we see each other till late in the afternoon, – a custom, I will own, that I used to rebel against at first, but I ‘m getting more accustomed to it now. And, after all, Dan, it would be a great sacrifice of all her comfort should I insist on a change; so I put up with it as best I can.”

      “Perhaps she ‘ll see herself, in time, that these are not the habits here.”

      “Perhaps so,” said my father; “but usually French people think their own ways the rule, and all others the exception. I suppose you were surprised at my marriage, Dan.”

      “Faith, I was, I own to you. I thought you one of those inveterate Irishers that could n’t think of anything but Celtic blood. You remember, when we were boys, how we used to rave on that theme.”

      “Very true. Like all the grafts, we deemed ourselves purer than the ancient stock; but no man ever knows when, where, or whom he’ll marry. It’s all nonsense planning and speculating about it. You might as well look out for a soft spot to fall in a steeplechase. You come smash down in the very middle of your speculations. I ‘m sure, as for me, I never dreamed of a wife till I found that I had one.”

      “I know so well how it all happened,” cried Dan, laughing. “You got up one of those delightful intimacies – that pleasant, familiar kind of half-at-homishness that throws a man always off his guard, and leaves him open to every assault of female fascination, just when he fancies that he is the delight of the whole circle. Egad, I’ve had at least half-a-dozen such, and must have been married at least as many times, if somebody hadn’t discovered, in the mean while, that I was ruined.”

      “So that you never fell in love in your prosperous days, Dan?”

      “Who does – who ever did? The minor that wrote sonnets has only to come of age, and feel that he can indite a check, to be cured of his love fever. Love is a passion most intimately connected with laziness and little money. Give a fellow seven or eight thousand a-year, good health and good spirits, and I ‘ll back him to do every other folly in Christendom before he thinks of marriage.”

      “From all of which I am to conclude that you set down this act of mine either as a proof of a weak mind or a failing exchequer,” said my father.

      “Not in your case,” said he, more slowly, and with a greater air of reflection. “You had always a dash of ambition about you; and the chances are that you set your affections on one that you half despaired of obtaining, or had really no pretentions to look for. I see I ‘m right, Walter,” said he, as my father fidgeted, and looked confused. “I could have wagered a thousand on it, if I had as much. You entered for the royal plate, and, by Jove! I believe you were right.”

      “You have not made so bad a guess of it, Dan; but what say the rest? What’s the town gossip?”

      “Do you not know Dublin as well or better than I do? Can’t you frame to a very letter every syllable that has been uttered on the subject? or need I describe to you my Lady Kilfoyle’s fan-shaking horror as she tells of ‘that poor dear Carew, and his unfortunate marriage with Heaven knows whom!’ Nor Bob French’s astonishment that you, of all men, should marry out of your sphere, – or, as he calls it, your ‘spire.’ Nor how graphically Mrs. Stapleton Harris narrates the manner of your entanglement: how you fought two brothers, and only gave in to the superior force of an outraged mamma and the tears of your victim! Nor fifty other similar stories, in which you figured alternately as the dupe or the deceived, – the only point of agreement being a universal reprobation of one who, with all his pretentions to patriotism, should have entirely forgotten the claims of Irish manufacture.”

      “And are they all so severe, – so unjust?”

      “Very nearly. The only really warm defender I ‘ve heard of you, was one from whom you probably least expected it.”

      “And who might that be?”

      “Can’t you guess, Watty?”

      “Harry Blake – Redmond – George Macartney?”

      “Confound it, you don’t think I mean a man!”

      “A woman, – who could she be? Not Sally Talbot; not Lady Jane Rivers; not – ”

      “Kitty Dwyer; and I think you might have guessed her before, Watty! It is rather late, to be sure, to think of it; but my belief is that you ought to have married that girl.”

      “She refused me, Dan. She refused me,” said my father, growing red, between shame and a sense of irritation.

      “There ‘s a way of asking that secures a refusal, Watty. Don’t tell me Kitty was not fond of you. I ought to know, for she told me so herself.”

      “She told you so,” cried my father, slowly.

      “Ay, did she. It was in the summer-house, down yonder. You remember the day you gave a great picnic to the Carbiniers; they were ordered off to India, and you asked them out here to a farewell breakfast. Well, I did n’t know then how badly matters were with me. I thought at least that I could scrape together some thirteen or fourteen hundreds a year; and I thought, too, that I had a knowledge of the world that was worth as much more, and that Kitty Dwyer was just the girl that suited me. She was never out of humor, could ride anything that ever was backed, did n’t care what she wore, never known to be sick, sulky, nor sorry for anything; and after a country dance that lasted two hours, and almost killed everybody but ourselves, I took her a walk round the gardens, and seated her in the summer-house there. I need n’t tell all I said,” continued he, with a sigh. “I believe I could n’t have pleaded harder for my life, if it was at stake; but she stopped me short, and, squeezing my hand between both of hers, said: ‘No, Dan, this cannot be, and you are too generous to ask me why.’ But I was not! I pressed her all the more; and at last – not without seeing a tear in her eye, too – I got at her secret, and heard her say your name. I swore by every saint we could either of us remember, never